


On the Road to Zion

by Sans Seraph (themothandthestars)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A/B/O, Multi, Nothing sexy happens but Michael's relationship with Adam is pretty gross, Omega!verse, lets just say everyone is pretty young and the angels are entirely aware of what they're doing, probably Claire too TBH, shades of emotional abuse, shades of emotional manipulation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:10:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3792688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themothandthestars/pseuds/Sans%20Seraph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was seventeen when the angels came.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down and wept, when we remembered Zion.  
\---Psalm 137:1 _

**May 3, 1996  
First Contact Day **

_The sky is that sort of too perfect that only ever seems to live in memories-an endless brilliant blue that cheerfully thumbed it's nose at the English language, and bright candyfloss clouds that promised rain in the future all humped up against the horizon. A lone jet sliced across like Dad's best blade, nose pointed sharply toward Anywhere But Here. The old AM/FM was blaring Tom Petty like it's existence depended on it._

When they were little, Dad was almost never home, and that was just part of the life in the Winchester house. They all learned to deal quick enough, Mom and Sammy and him. They'd move from base to base, never staying long, never making plans or friends that might hurt too much to leave behind and didn't bother to complain much. It wouldn't do any good and just wasted time. Even when Mom got Sick-with-a-Capitol-S, they didn't stick around. 

'It's OK, baby.' They'd said. 'I'm sure the new oncologist will be just as good.'  
'Everything will be just fine. You wait and see, Dean-o.” 

He hated hospitals. He hated being the one to tell his baby brother that Mom wasn't coming home this time. Not in a week, not in a month, not at all. He hated it even more that she hadn't been gone a full year before Dad brought Kate home-pretty, blonde Kate, all young and healthy. Boys needed a mother, Dad said. It was Winchester-Speak for 'I've been deployed again. Man up and don't complain.' 

They were in South Carolina when John married Kate and told Sam and Dean they'd have a new brother soon all in one big swoop. Dean counted it out. He didn't speak to his father for months after, not when he left for God Knows Where. Not even when he promised that this was it. The end. No more active duty, no more moves. 

Adam was walking and talking and starting school-getting into more trouble than Sam and Dean ever dared-and never once met his father. Sam turned eleven, twelve, and finally thirteen and John still wasn't home. Dean, well, Dean does what he can to be father and brother, even when his grades started to slip. Even when he lost his spot on the varsity baseball team. Even when they had to move one last time, cause the hand outs and pitying looks only lasted so long. 

Honestly, some days he's the only parent they had. Dean doesn't blames Kate, not exactly. She never misses a birthday and does her damnedest to be there for the other things. She works her ass off and refuses to let Dean quit school to help. Some weeks, when Dad's money runs out too soon or the week goes too long, its her double shifts at the Med Center that keeps gas in the tank and food in the fridge. Kate Winchester is a good woman, even if Dean still can't bring himself to call her Mom. 

More importantly, Kate needed someone to hit up the Winn-Dixie before the little nerd's party, and Dean would be damned if he was gonna let them have another Twinkies and Ho-Hos Birthday. If Sam wanted a _Doctor Who_ cake then that's what he was gonna get, if Dean had to draw the stupid telephone booth himself. Frickin _Doctor Who_. Really? 

(Not that the blonde chick wasn't hot-too young, too 80s to believe, and not at all his type-but hot. Not that he watched, or anything. And damn, the computer stuff was getting good. No more rubber masks and toilet plungers.

And how he'd manged to get two nerdy little brothers was completely beyond Dean's comprehension. Would it hurt either of 'em to do something normal once in a while? Change a tire, throw a ball, maybe? No, it's all cheesy old sci-fi on PBS and BBC for Sammy and frickin Pokemon and Legos for Adam. _Where did he go wrong?_ ) 

Thankfully, he just had to haul shit. Which would be a heck of a lot easier if someone would open the frickin door. Between the cake and ice cream, stuff for burgers, and decorations, he didn't have so much as a finger to flip the latch. 

“Jeeze, Sammy, what'd'ya thing it is, your birthday or somethin'? _Come get the door!_ ” 

No answer. 

“Do I have to call up the clown college again, man? _C'mon!_ ” 

Eventually, he gives up and deigns himself to making two trips. The kitchen is empty, but it's obvious Kate was here recently-diced strawberries, onions, and cheese waiting to be added to the salad bowl on the counter and the radio quietly crooning _Free Fallin_ to the empty room.

Cool, electric blue light flickers over the familiar pear green kitchen tile through the pass-through, telling him everything he needed to know; Cartoon Network wins again. Kate had probably snuck away to the bathroom or to answer the phone, since she wouldn't leave that knife there for much longer than a minute or two. 

The Winchesters kept a neat house. As neat as can be expected, anyhow. Still, the clutter of three active young men-not to mention Kate's-made for a pretty formidable pile on the breakfast bar. Dean was forced to lean precariously through the pass-through to see the other room. A bit of acrobatics was a small price to pay for the opportunity to tease his brothers. 

“Aren't you guys too old for watching cartoons in your underwe-?”

“Shhh...!” 

Kate's voice, not Sam's, answers. Huh. 

Sam and Kate are both ramrod straight on the lumpy old sofa, eyes glued on the tube while Adam fusses on his mother's lap. At six, he's still a bit small for his age and trending toward clingy when she's around. Who can blame him? 

Dean doesn't take two steps before the civil warning siren makes everyone jump. 

“What the hell?” 

“Language, Dean.” 

“ _Dean._ ” Sam said his name with the usual scowl and wrinkle between his eyes. Only now he was pale and jittery, like he'd been hitting the coffee again, and Adam's stupid Bambi eyes were huge, and it wasn't cartoons on the TV, not even that weird Japanese stuff. In fact, he was pretty sure that was the news channel logo under the big glowy pile of CGI. 

“ _We interrupt this program...._ ”

Sammy was too impatient to wait for his brother to figure it out on his own-a small bit of normalcy, honestly-and nearly vaulted the seat to drag Dean closer. 

“ _... Please stand by..._ ” 

He doesn't sit. There's plenty of room, but Dean is too busy staring for it to register. 

“ _...message from the President of the United States...._ ” 

Those aren't computer graphics.

***

In the days that follow, the videos would be played in endless loops. Every channel had at least one, all compiled from shaky camcorders and smoother, professional images.

The setting changes, but each one is the same. The- _the thing_ -hangs there, weightless over a city he can only guess at, a mess of interlocking rings, nested on on top of the other like a crazy bird's nest all light and motion that makes the cameras white out. 

Dean was sure if he stared long enough, patterns would resolve themselves in the constant movement of the-the _electrons_? That's what it reminded him of, anyhow. A swoopy, swirly jacked up atom going crazy over some exotic city. The countless blue-white rings seemed to move in some complicated dance around the core, just seconds from a catastrophic crash. The world held it's breath. 

It was frickin _awesome_ , but weird as hell. 

Adam had cried that first night, and refused to be alone even long enough to pee. His voice had gone all soft and shy and nothing like the mostly-happy little dude who'd carved himself a place in their screwed up family through sheer stubbornness. It did mean Dean and Kate had to alternate between holding a sniffly octopus and finishing their contribution to Sam's birthday dinner, but no one seemed to mind; Dean felt a bit like grabbing Dad's old shot gun, himself. Like barricading the doors and covering the windows and hiding til it was over. Not that freaking everyone out even more was a good plan, or anything. Eating, though, eating was a good plan. The needed to eat, and do the cake thing, just like they'd planned. And maybe when the kids weren't looking, he'd sneak some water and shit into the trunk of the car. Just in case. 

Sammy, he couldn't seem to make up his mind-should be be ecstatic that it was happening on his birthday, or pissed that they were technically a day late? Either way, he couldn't tear himself away from the TV for longer than a few minutes at a time, and it was starting to piss everyone off. He couldn't even manage enough interest for Dean's burgers, or Kate's strawberry salad, both things he'd asked for special, and not even for his presents (which Dean happened to know was a brand-frickin-new, eye melting blue computer; the first one they'd ever had and it was all for Sammy.)

“It's a pattern.” He said, after Kate had to ask him to come to the table for the _third time_. 

“Like pi, only, well, not.” 

“Yeah, well, this cake _should'a_ been pie for all the love you're givin' it, twerp. Get over here and eat. ”

Sam's bitchface was model number five-Dean, shut the hell up-but didn't bother answering. His breath was better spent elsewhere. 

“No, look! Count the rings: three, five, eight, thirteen, restart. One, one, two-” 

But now the anchorwoman is talking too fast and too loud to understand, her southern accent slipping through until her babbling was thicker than cold molasses. The cameraman zoomed in on a second ship. 

It was small and lean and sleek, shaped like a big parenthesis, or some creepy crawly from the bottom of the ocean, with twin lines dripping out from a heavy, sickle bow. It didn't fly so much as descend, silent, powerful and graceful, and Dean couldn't help but wonder what was under the hood. 

***

The Mal'ach'ai, it turns out, aren't too different from humans when it comes to looks. At least, so long as 'human' means 'supermodel meets MENSA'. Still, they kept to the same basic layout: two arms, two legs, eyes, nose, and mouth. Of course, the wings were a bit of a surprise. 

He didn't give a shit, but Sam was over the moon-skinny geeks were suddenly in style. Maybe now he can get himself a girl. 

On the whole, the aliens were taller and leaner than human standard, shaped more like a dancer than a body builder, and so far, not a single one was anything less than gorgeous. The first one to set foot on Earth was at least six foot of hard muscle wrapped in soft smiles and pearly wings. 

People have already taken to calling 'em angels, and the religious sorts are going wild. All Dean knows is that he can't turn on a TV now without a pair of neon bright eyes staring back at him. Michael, usually, but his brothers aren't exactly absent. It was all anyone wanted to talk about, and he was frickin sick of it; of Michael, and angels, and _The Offer_. 

See, according to the overgrown feather dusters, their home planet was dying. War, apparently, turned it into a barren hunk of rock, and their ships were full of refugees all looking for a new place to live. In exchange they offered themselves. All the science and technology, peace and goodwill Earth cold swallow. 

Dean thought it was all a bunch of bullshit, naturally, but he was in the minority. Here, have our stuff, oh by the way, it takes a Mal'ach to make it work. Convenient. 

Michael wants to send his Mal'ach to the hospitals. Like, all of them. Every clinic, ER, teaching hospital, and medical center, everywhere. Who even says shit like that? 

According to the tabloids, some countries have already accepted, and Dean is pretty sure the US is only a day or so away from saying yes themselves. The stories of disease and illness disappearing, of injuries healing like a frickin magic trick, was just too much for some people to pass up. 

In the end, it took less than a week for a Mal'ach to turn up at the Med Center in town. 

Kate said his name was Jophiel. He was, according to just about everyone, very pretty even for his species, with night dark skin and long hair in plaits and gilded wings. He liked to spend time on the pediatric floor. 

Dean decided their phosphorescent eyes looked dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that took a lot longer than it was supposed to. Sorry about that, apparently posting schedules and I don't get on well. 
> 
> But thanks for your support, everyone, and feel free to listen to me bitch and moan on sans--seraph.tumblr.com.

No one was entirely surprised when the protests start months later. Well, no one human, at least. They started simple enough, just little gatherings of resistance to, well, everything. Too many Mal'ach'ai fingers in governments, too many governments playing their usual games, and just a few scattered pockets that want to see the angels gone forever. 

The first sign of violence was in Turkey, but Hong Kong and Iran and Brazil were quick to follow. By the time reached Europe, car bombs and bullets had replaced fists and angry voices. The first Mal'ach'ai to fall was Akriel. No one would forget that name, not when she was a sweet-faced girl with huge green eyes. Her wings had been burned and torn to bits trying to protect her charge. They weren't exactly wallpapering the world with her image, but posters and commercials did turn up in the more liberal cities. 

Then came Leliel, and Diniel, and Chamuel-all dead at the hands of extremists. The growing list that didn't even include the human portion. It didn't have to. 

It may have been selfish, but Dean couldn't bring himself to care. They were all oceans away, and not even human. Because really? Aliens? Outer space aliens? People couldn't even handle _other people_ without bloodshed. 

Anti-government, religious, hell anti-religious, no one really knew who they were or where they came from, but the target was all too obvious: from the biggest district hospital to the smallest neighborhood clinic, every single heap of rubble had welcomed the Mal'ach'ai with open arms. People were just crazy, bringing down their own hospitals to get at one frickin person. 

The first hit on US soil was in Georgia; a little place just outside of Atlanta. They'd been getting closer almost every day-Canada and Brazil, then Mexico and Jamaica and Cuba. That night, Dean had to beg Kate not to go back to work. There were plenty of other nurses at the Med Center, he'd said, but Sam and Adam needed _her_. _He_ needed her.

Too bad they needed the paycheck, too. Kate left for her shift at four in the morning in her bright blue scrubs, same as always, and not a damn thing happened. Their little hospital isn't the next to go, or even the second. Days, then weeks, crawl past. He catches Adam crying himself to sleep more often than not-and once, Sam too-but bit by bit, they manage to move on. Not relax, exactly, but cope. They figure out how to keep living while watching over their shoulders 

There's talk of building a memorial for the fallen angels, but it's still just a bunch of names in the paper to him. He has more important things to worry about; Sam will be a freshman next year, and Adam starts first grade. They're both excited to start working with Harahel and Raziel, the Mal'ach'ai stationed at their school, but first they both need new clothes, books, all that crap. He'll have finally graduated by then, and that'll help. If he's lucky, Dean will convince one of Dad's old army buddies to hire him for the summer, and that will help even more. 

Mal'ach'ai are showing up in more and more places, now. Not just the schools and hospitals, but in government and military positions, and scientific organizations. They've begun to control the weather in some places, ending decade long droughts or keeping hurricanes in check. Michael still says it's all for the sake of peace and safety. They only want to help. Right. 

In the end, he's not sure if it's better, or so, so much worse, then, when the Med Center goes up in flames. Truth be told, he doesn't remember much, black suits and flowers (sunflowers, at Adam's instances, because his mother loved yellow and sunny days and no one had the heart to deny the kid) and now Kate's name will be on the memorial, when it goes up in Atlanta. 

He has six months til his birthday, and a choice to make, but as far as Dean is concerned, there's no choice at all. 

*** 

By July, the boys were suddenly a whole lot closer to Savannah and a whole lot further from finding a home. The courts, it turns out, don't look on six months any more kindly than six years, but he was welcome to reapply when he turned of-age. Bunch of dicks. 

Still, they'd scored big with the Harvelles and everyone knew it. It wasn't bad. _Really_. It sucked, of course it did, but it could have been so, so much worse. Dean was still counting down the days til his birthday, yeah, but The Roadhouse was okay. There were vaguely tame cats and less tame kids everywhere, soaking up the sunshine and hospitality and food, and they could have been awful, so so awful, but instead Bill and Ellen were just sort of awesome. Hell, it took him weeks to figure out the little blonde thing he'd been talking up was a flesh-and-blood daughter, and not just another foster kid. 

When she bothered to give Dean the time of day, Joanna-call-me-Jo-or-risk-a-nutshot told them there had been half a dozen schools here before. All so bad, according to her, and so small, that the angels just jammed everything into one, named it Blue Ridge, and called it a day. The human staff had been politely ushered out, and the angels filled in the gaps. 

The best Dean can say is at least he doesn't have to make two trips now-Sam, Jo, and Adam are all in the same building. Saves him gas, too, since it's close to his chair, and with prices about ready to hit stupid highs, every drop of gas is something to be horded. 

Blue Ridge was an ugly, squat building. The kids already laugh and whisper that it was a prison before the angels showed up. All Dean knows is that the superintendent is the biggest dick of all-and living proof that the Mal'ach'ai suffer the same sort of shitty aging process that humans do. He's a short, round guy in a bad suit, with dove grey wings and matching hair. He's the first Dean had ever met that embraced human fashion, not to mention human names, like a thing on fire. 

Zachariah, once Zachariel, was supposed to head up all the schools in the south, from the ocean to the Mississippi and north to the Ohio, but the guy seemed pretty happy to hang out in their little resort town, pissing everyone off. 

This year, new students are being told to submit a sample for some sort of genetic testing. It's a simple, painless process, they're told, that will help the administrators find those best suited to working alongside the Mal'ach'ai. Once bitten, and all that, and, hey, if you've got a method of picking out the violent types from the not, why not? 

Just like with vaccines, no one really had a choice, it was no poke-no school; Dean didn't even know about it until after it was done. He spent the day on his high chair working on his tan, keeping the drunk tourists from turning into _dead_ drunk tourists, and completely oblivious to anything happening at the school. 

One at a time, each class queued up outside the nurse's station the first day of school, youngest to oldest, and single drop of blood is taken. Adam got himself a bright red sucker for his bravery (and Sam was secretly convinced that blonde Mal'ach with the wild mess of curls was the prettiest person in creation. Not that he'd ever tell his brothers.) 

Dinner that night is a happy, noisy thing; a celebration of sorts, with Ellen cooking up a bit of everyone's favorites for their first day back to school. Dean did his part, of course, bringing home enough two liters of soda and junk food to feed a small army. Which wouldn't be much of an stretch; two new kids had shown up by the end of summer, pushing their end tally into the double digits. No one bothered to mention the blood test til long after Dean was getting cozy with his favorite pillow. 

Waking up early sucked. There was no other word for it. _None_. But ten kids, with eight of 'em in school, means everyone old enough to roll themselves out of bed on their own help with the munchkins. Sam's the one who bullies Adam out of their shared bunk and into (mostly) matching clothes, while Jo feeds the babies-twins, Olivia and Sophia, who were completely smitten with Jo, else she'd have weaseled her way out of something so domestic. Dean gets to fry up bacon and eggs, pour cereal, put the coffee on, and generally play short order cook for a bunch of sleepy, cranky kids, and their sleepy, cranky adults. No big deal, he's just that awesome. 

The baby seats don't exactly fit well in Dad's old Impala, a fact Dean is endlessly thankful for. Not that he dislikes the twins or anything. They're just messy. Very messy. Adorable, giggly, ginger dirt magnets. It means he gets to say who gets to ride in his car, and _that_ means the answer is Jo, because his brothers were a given. He drops them off and hopes for an easy day at the beach. 

Three hours into his shift, just when he's starting to wonder what sort of snack he can wheedle out of the guys at the surf shack, Dean remembers just how much the world hates him. 

A pair of angels land in the sand around his chair. They're pretty, of course-they're almost always too pretty to be real-and so out of place with their gold jewelry and practically see through toga-things it makes Dean snort. 

“Dean Winchester?” The girl, young and fairy-delicate looking, dark skinned and dark eyed with a cloud of coppery red hair curls like a halo around her head. He can't help leering, just a little, and no one anywhere would blame him. 

“My name is Ariel. Come with me, please.” It wasn't exactly a request. 

“Look lady, I'm honored and all, really, but my next break isn't for two hours. I ain't moving til lunch time.”

“You do not understand. We are from Blue Ridge School. You need to come with us.” 

Oh. _Oh shit._

“Is something wrong? Did Sammy get in a fight again?” He ends up taking the steps two at a time, almost tripping in his haste to reach the ground. “Are my brothers OK?” 

He has to promise Cassie his lunch and an unnamed favor before she'll take his spot, but she's smiling the whole time. Possibly because she already figured out just what the angels intend. Dean's too busy worrying about getting fired, or maybe the idea is so freaky it refused to cross his mind. 

He totally didn't screech when the big blond angel scooped him up like a frickin blushing bride and took to the sky. He's gonna have to give Cassie a weeks worth of food to keep her from talking. He was never flying again. _Never._

When they reach the school, none too soon for Dean, there's a small group of people waiting on the front lawn. It's not hard to pick out his brothers, not with Sammy putting on another growth spurt. He's gonna have to get him new jeans, again, and soon. The rest were only a little harder-a handful of angels he'd never seen before, Ellen and Jo. What the hell did they do this time? 

By the time his feet were firmly back where they belonged, Adam barreled into him at full speed and grinning like an idiot. The kid was just so _happy_ , and Sammy, too, that Dean couldn't help but smile back. Not bad news then. Awesome! It must have been that that tripped Dean up and made his stomach roll. Definitely not the flying. 

It's been literally months since Dean has seen Adam bouncy and chattering like a normal first grader; his mother's death deflated the kid like an old, worn out balloon. But here he was, talking so fast Dean only caught every three words. Test? Good grades? It took Sam to explain that they'd won a sort of merit scholarship, him and Adam and the quietly proud Jo, for taking some test and having the best average. Later, Ellen would tell him she didn't think they'd looked any further than Blue Ridge-she didn't like Zachariah and his goons any more than him, and it was a little too perfect, everyone coming from the same school. Til then, Dean was just happy someone else had notice how awesome his brothers were. 

“Mr. Winchester. So good of you to join us at long last.” Yeah, Zachariah was still the bastard he remembered from orientation. Good to know some things don't change. 

“Now that we're all here, I can extend Prince Regent Michael's invitation to join his court at Zion. As representatives of Blue Ridge, their expenses will be handled. They are, after all, the best and brightest in the region.” 

Zion. 

He knew what Zion was, of course. Everyone did. It was the closest thing they had to an elite school now that the Mal'ach'ai were handling things. It was Duke or Columbia on steroids, or something, combined with Michael's little court and handful of humans they'd decided were good enough to work in their shiny new global government. The place was named for the park that used to sit where Michael's primary ship first landed. It didn't need some pretentious title tacked on; no Zion Hall, or Zion Academy. Everyone just _knew_. 

Sammy loved talking about the day he'd get to apply. The kid wanted to be some big shot lawyer, and the brains to do it. No way in hell his baby brothers were gonna be stuck fishing tourists out of the surf. Not while he had anything to do with it. 

Dean thought his brothers were the best thing since apple pie with cheese, but other people didn't always agree. He just didn't expect to hear words like 'invitation' 'compatibility' and 'familial potential,' not in regards to _his_ family, but that's exactly what the little flyer said. No wonder Sam had presented it to him like it was make of frickin gold. 

“Now, all that we need is for a parent or guardian-Mrs. Harvelle, that's you-to sign custody of the children over to Zion and we can be on our way.” 

“Wait, what? What the hell do you mean, sign over? Hells gonna freeze first!” 

“Now, now, Dean,” Zachariah's smile reminded him of a shark more than anything remotely human. All teeth and hunger. “I'm sure your concerns are of import, but because of your age, and your family's-lets say propensity for untimely death-this decision isn't up to you, but Mrs. Harvelle.” 

Ellen was holding a stack of papers. What the hell? Was she really just gonna sign them away like a beat up old car? 

Really? What about all those late nights, just him and Ellen and the beat up kitchen table makin' plans for his birthday? 

Well _fuck that_! He wasn't gonna take this shit sitting down. 

“Unless. Unless you were willing to join your brothers-and Joanna, of course, we can't expect Mrs. Harvelle to leave her own wards. If you would serve as their guardian _in loco parentis_ , there would be no need to transfer custody. Who knows, Dean, you might even surprise us all, and manage a class or two.” 

Wait. 

Wait. Did he just-? 

Okay, Zachariah was the head dick of the dicks, and Dean was pretty sure he'd just called him an idiot, or something, but he was equally sure he was laying an early Christmas present at Dean's feet, all tied up in a shiny red ribbon. Who was he to bitch about moving again? Or that dick with wings and his shitty attempt at manipulation? Dean didn't even need to see Sam's puppy eyes or Adam's smile to know this was a no-brainer. 

Ellen is already signing the paperwork while Dean still working it out-he'll have to send someone to tell Cassie and the guys at the lifeguard shack, and take a few days to pack up their things and get the car ready for the trip. He's got weeks, maybe a month or two before they'll be leaving. He can deal with that. 

Only, Ellen is shoving a pen in his hand, and he may not be a genius but Dean's pretty sure this thing is signing Jo over to him til the kid graduates. 

She tells him not to worry. They'll have their things boxed up and sent just as soon as everyone is settled. They'll be home for the holiday break before they know it. 

Zachariah's smile is more shark like than ever when he's handing the paperwork over to Ariel, well, the guys a douche. Even the other angel is curling her delicate nose like she smelled something nasty. 

Ariel shakes out her cinnamon and amber gilt wings, each dark, bronze tipped flight feather longer than Dean's arm, and shrugs herself into the weird little bag she'd shoved the paperwork into. It sits neatly between each wing, the straps crossing her chest like some skimpy superhero costume. Beside her, another angel was stuffing his with water bottles and packaged food. 

_Aw, fuck no._

*** 

Dicks. The Mal'ach'ai were just _dicks_. They don't even get the luxury of a pressurized cabin on their cross country flight. The Appalachians and the Mississippi and Oklahoma wheat all rolled past under the steady flap-flap-glide of the angel's big wings. Not many people in the world were “lucky” enough to know rough an angel's flight was, lurching and dipping with each down stroke. Dean lost count of the times he wanted to hurl. 

His ride is Raguel, a guy built like a brick shithouse, and a good head taller than him. Raguel is an asshole. 

_“What classes are you taking?”_  
“What sort of career did he want?”  
“Did he like caring for his family?” 

He wouldn't frickin _shut up_. By the time the were crossing the Mississippi, Dean was sure the angel was writing a book, or something. He was treated to Raguel-the-asshole's questions and sarcasm-at least, he _thought_ it was sarcasm, hard to tell when the who race seems to be missing their humor chips-all damn morning. 

They'd stopped for lunch somewhere in Texas. The angels offer them their choice of simple, meatless sandwiches with a goopy green spread and other healthy shit. A bird is scolding him from a dusty tree, and Dean is totally not sulking. He just wants to check out the landscape. And, if he decides to stick to water and that crumby, almost sweet cracker-thing, that's his business. 

Well, his and Sam's, because the kid made it his. Frickin mother hen at thirteen. He won't stop talking about chickpea and avocado this and capricorne cheese that and making Dean's stomach do another series of barrel rolls. 

“Dude, do you want me to upchuck on someone's head? Cause that's whats gonna happen if you don't stop trying to stuff that shit down my throat.” 

“Oh. I-Sorry?”

“Don't sweat it, pipsqueek. Guess I'm just not made for flying.” Not that he cared. _Feet belong on the ground._ He resists the urge to give Sammy the mother of all noogies, but only just. 

“My apologies.” Dean doesn't flinch. Sam's angel-Suriel, his name is Suriel-just moves like a frickin ghost in those weird, wrapped outfits the Mal'ach'ai brought with them. Doesn't help that the guys got that white-blonde hair usually reserved for little kids and skin so pale he probably glows in the dark. 

“I could heal you, if you're feeling unwell?” 

“Nah, thanks but no thanks, pal. I just can't handle all this rabbit food.”

“Of course.” 

“It's only too bad anything else would spoil in the heat-Zion's chefs are quite proud of their skill with human food.” What the hell, man? Did these guys have no sense of privacy? Raguel looks like he thinks Dean is full of shit. He itching to wipe that grin off his stupid face. He was sure the asshole was laughing at him. 

Somewhere behind them, Jo was commanding a cadre of angels in the stream with military precision. Someone, it seemed had snuck the kid something red and sticky. His family knew better. As far as Dean cared, Jael would just have to deal with goopy feathers for the rest of the trip, but no one else seemed to share his opinion. It was a good thirty minutes before they were ready to fly again. 

Not that he was complaining. At all. Nope. 

Mile after mile of the American southwest disappeared behind them as Raguel's wings churned the thin air. That, and not the local's proclivity for Biblical naming trends, was the reason Michael had chosen Zion. The dry air and big skies made for easy flying. 

He missed South Carolina already. He missed the beach, and air thick enough to choke on, and his precious Impala covered in bug goo and white petals. She was in storage now, safe from the frickin love bugs and may flies, and he'd probably never see her again. At least, not until Adam was old enough to leave Zion. The angels had _this thing_ about cars. They said a whole lot about climate change and fossil fuels and efficiency, but all Dean heard was ' _blah blah blah_ '. Douches. He even tried to make this little trip to Utah hinge on him keeping his car, but the best he could manage was lock-up in a garage run by one of Ellen's friends. She'd be safe and sound whenever he got to go back for her, but until then, they were wingin' it. 

Ha. God, he hated flying. 

Raguel wasn't helping. In fact, he was pretty damn sure they were all just showing off now, flying low over the tree tops and skimming rivers. He missed the Grand Canyon entirely when someone decided _through_ not _over_ was the best course. He's pretty sure he left his stomach somewhere in Arizona, right beside his pride. While the others were whooping and shouting like a bunch of lunatics, Dean just buried his face in the angel's neck. The jerk was gonna swear to secrecy if he had to pluck _every damn one_ of his feathers. 

Utah itself was just as red-brown and desolate as Colorado and Arizona, and he sure as hell couldn't tell a difference, even when his ride told him they'd be touching down in time for dinner. Somewhere along the way, the landscape had gone from grassland to bare rock spires. Every now and again, a patch of gold or black would break up the dusty red. Dean couldn't help but think the place looked dangerous, and not in any of the fun ways. 

They arrive from the south, following a twisted, muddy green stripe of a water to the mouth of the canyon, the only vegetation he'd seen in what felt like forever clinging to the edges of the river. It's a strange thing, straight sided walls that rise up up from the valley floor like bronze and gold monoliths all spotted with spindly grey-green trees. Like a prison for anything that lacked a strong pair of wings. 

Zion, itself, was a miniature walled-city of bone white adobe and turquoise domes set in the heart of the canyon it was named for. It's ringed by natural towers with names like Great White Throne and Angel's Landing, but they're nothing compared to the spires of the compound. There's four, each capped impossibly brilliant blues and golds, and stabbing at the sky and looking like something more at home in the Sahara, or even Moscow, than Utah. 

The great glass dome at the heart of the Zion is almost too bright to look at, the diamond panes are trimmed in gold and it's frickin' _glowing_ in the late evening sun. 

They land in one of the open air courtyards, and it's like something straight out of Jurassic Park. They're surrounded by exotic plants with huge, glossy leaves and chittering birds, spill-over from the glass dome, and each one rescued from the Mal'ach'ai homeworld. Dean's positive he sees something like a tiny dragon, but, then, he _is_ still a mess from their Grand Canyon Adventure. Who knows what the hell he's seeing. 

“Hello. Welcome to Zion.” The angel who meets them is a nerdy looking dude no older than Dean, his hair a windblown mess. 

“Thank you for conducting our guests safely, you may return to your duties.” He dismissed the other Mal'ach'ai with a flick of one glossy, dark wing. 

“You'll find the bathing hall through those doors-ladies to the left. You should have just enough time to wash up and change before dinner, as the Northern residents have just arrived. You're new clothes are waiting in the changing rooms.”

Dude was brusque to the point of being rude, and didn't even bother to share his name, but that seemed to be sorta common for the angels. Dean didn't give a damn. He was sweaty, tired and _hungry_ , and if a bathroom was all that stood between him and dinner, he was gonna _own_ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've noticed a few people mention not being able to handle seeing Charlie in fic right now, so consider this your warning: the ginger chick is very much alive and kicking ass in the next chapter.


End file.
